by Sally Morgan
***
In no time at all, I was pregnant with my second child. They put me into hospital to bring her on, because they said she was going to be too big. I had to sit in hot baths up to my neck and drink schooners of castor oil and cascara. That didn’t work, so they fed me some pills and gave me over thirty injections; a week later, I still hadn’t had her. Finally, the doctor strapped me up, ruptured the membrane and left me with the nurses.
By the time labour started, I was exhausted. I didn’t know how I’d have the strength to give birth. I went into some kind of trance and began speaking in an unknown language, nobody could understand what I was saying. They called the doctor in, and when Jilly was finally born she shot out and covered him in a gallon of green water.
They took me to the ward, I was really low. I found myself floating in the air, looking down at my body lying on the bed. I could see the matron and doctor working on me, trying to revive me. Suddenly, I was back inside my body and the matron said, ‘Thank God, we thought we’d lost you!’ I was advised not to have any more children, or at least to wait three years before another one.
Bill was trying hard to hold himself together, but there were still times when he’d go off on a binge and I wouldn’t see him for a few days. On these occasions, Mum would come and stay just to keep me company.
She was doing housework now, and could work when she pleased. I was glad, because it was easier for her. She was always buying clothes for the kids and dropping in groceries, she knew I had no money.
Bill had a nervous breakdown and they put him in Hollywood Hospital. He couldn’t cope with any pressure or responsibility. I used to feel awful when I visited him, it was like all the men in there belonged to a club. Instead of being pleased to see me, he’d make me wait while he finished a game of cards with his mates. I felt like an intruder, they all seemed to be living in some kind of dream world. Bill was sent home, eventually, with a couple of bottles of drugs that were supposed to keep him calm.
By the time Jill was four months old, I was pregnant again. I went to the doctor and he told me I couldn’t have the baby, that I had to get rid of it. He sent me home with some tablets to take. I told Mum what he said and she agreed with me that I shouldn’t take them. I threw them into the bin.
An epidemic of polio hit Mulberry Farm, I caught it. I couldn’t move, Mum moved in with us. Bill was working at the time and I needed someone to look after Sally and Jilly. By some miracle, I recovered from the polio.
I went back to the doctor when I was seven months pregnant, he was very cross that I had let the pregnancy continue. I never told him I’d had polio as well, I could imagine what he’d say. I gave birth to a son that November, it was an easy birth.
When Billy was born, I saw a golden angel hovering over me and I heard beautiful music. The angel was very happy that Billy had come into the world. Of course, Bill was overjoyed that he had a son at last.
Bill applied for a State Housing home in Manning. Mum was living with us permanently now. I really needed her help with three little ones so close together and Bill the way he was. When Billy was six months old, we moved to Manning. It was nothing but bush then.
There was a large swamp at the back of us, there was nothing the kids loved better than an excursion down the swamp, it was alive with wildlife, turtles, frogs, gilgies, grey cranes. It reminded me of the bush from my own childhood days. I encouraged the children to take an interest in the wildlife. It was good for them to learn about nature and how important it is to our lives.
We’d only been in Manning a month, when Mum began to complain about all the Aborigines living in the swamp. ‘Did you hear that music last night?’ she said. ‘They been having corroborees every night, I think I’ll go down there and tell them all off.’
I often sat and listened to it with her after that. I’ve never been to a corroboree, but that music had always been inside of me. When I was little, I was told Aboriginal music was heathen music. I thought it was beautiful music; whenever I heard it, it was like a message, like I was being supported, protected.
One night I told Mum that there were no Aborigines in the swamp. She’d been complaining she couldn’t sleep and she was sick of those blackfellas having a party every night. I don’t think she believed me. ‘You heard the music, Glad,’ she said, ‘there’s a big mob of them down there.’
‘There’s no one down there,’ I told her, ‘it’s a spiritual thing.’ After that, we just accepted it. She’d sit out and listen to it and then go to bed. We didn’t hear it every night, but it was there on and off right up until Bill died. Then it stopped.
Mum heard this other thing, too, she said there was a crocodile in the swamp. We only heard that noise at night. She’d say to the kids to be careful when they went down the swamp, to watch out for the crocodile. Sally and Jilly were buggers for nicking off whenever they could. I remember Mum saying to Sally, ‘Aren’t you scared of meeting that crocodile?’ I couldn’t help laughing, because I knew that was why Sally kept going down there, she wanted to meet him.
Bill seemed to pull himself together when we first went to the Manning house. I began to hope for a better future for us all. He managed to get a good job and cut down on his drinking. His nearest watering hole was the Raffles Hotel, he’d go there for a few beers after work and then come home. I knew he was worried about us being on our own, because we had no streetlights then.
On the weekends he worked for the Italian market gardeners in Spearwood. He loved mixing with them and speaking Italian. He had never forgotten the kindness of the Bossos during the war. He’d come home loaded up with fruit and vegetables and bottles of vino. He often did jobs for them free of charge. I think he felt indebted to all Italian people because they’d been so good to him.
Pretty soon, there were other houses going up around us. A widow with three children moved in at the back of us. Grace was such a nice person and Mum often had a chat and a cup of tea with her.
One morning Bill was sitting on the bus going to work, when the chap next to him said, ‘You look a bloody sight better than the last time I saw you!’
Bill said, ‘Do I know you?’
‘You only saved my life, you bastard,’ the man replied. It was Frank Potter, one of the men Bill had dragged up from the hold. It turned out he and his wife lived only a few streets away. They saw a lot of each other after that.
Bill began having nightmares again. It seemed that things would just start going right for us and then the whole circle would start all over again.
Things started getting really bad, we were so desperate, we’d gone through Mum’s savings and Bill had hocked everything we had of value and spent the money on drink. The doctors increased his doses of pills and other medicines, but, combined with the alcohol, it only made him worse. There were times he’d mistake me for a German SS officer; when he looked at me, his eyes were glazed, it was like he wasn’t really seeing me at all. One night, he nearly strangled me. He was screaming, ‘SS, SS,’ and had his hands around my throat.
There were times when it was like something had taken him over, that was when I really got frightened, because I didn’t know what was going to happen. He’d yell and scream and tell us all to get out the house or he’d kill us. Mum and I would run with the children to Grace’s house. She was good to us, she knew we had nowhere else to go. Sometimes, we’d sleep the night there, other times, I’d sneak to the back fence and listen to see if he was still shouting. Generally, once he went to sleep, he was all right, we’d go back home then. A few times when we spent the night at Grace’s, I’d hear his voice calling me, ‘Gla-ad, Gla-ad …’ in a really quiet way, as if to indicate he wouldn’t hurt me if I came to him. I never went outside on those occasions, I knew he’d kill me. It scared me so much because the voice wasn’t really his, it was like he’d suddenly turned into a stranger.
When we returned in the morning, Bill would have no idea of what had happened. When I told him, he’d get really scared and commit
himself to Hollywood again. He told me he thought, one day, he might really kill us and he couldn’t bear that thought, because we loved him and he loved us.
One winter, just after Bill had come out of hospital, it was really cold. Sally had been sick with croup, the river had flooded and water covered over half of our backyard. There were no drains, so it just lay there, the house was damp right through, even though we had fires going day and night. Several of the houses near us were evacuated and the people given alternative accommodation. Even Grace at the back moved in with her mother, she was sick of seeing the fungus grow on her walls.
‘We’ve got to get blankets for the children,’ I told Bill. ‘Doesn’t the Canteen’s Trust Fund give money to ex-servicemen in dire circumstances?’
We had no money for blankets, so we usually all ended up in the double bed, it meant we were warm, but no one got any sleep. Mum managed to get us some hot-water bottles, but it wasn’t enough.
Bill was very proud, he hated asking for help. Finally, he relented and said he would write to them. We waited eagerly for their reply, when it came, it was short and sweet, they said we weren’t desperate enough.
I was really disgusted, it was the same old story. It had taken years before the Repatriation Department would even give Bill a partial pension, because they considered him a malingerer.
No one understood in those days, if you’d lost an arm and a leg, you had no worries, but if there was something wrong with your mind, you were a malingerer. When I think about that, it makes me feel sorry for the Vietnam veterans now, they are fighting the same attitudes.
Bill became very bitter after the Trust Fund refused us, it made him feel as though everyone was looking down on him, as though he was complaining about nothing. I felt then that the war hadn’t been worth it.
***
By the time Billy was just over two years old, I became pregnant again. It was a really bad time to have another child. I lay in bed at night, unable to sleep. I’d prayed and prayed and I’d gotten no answers. My usual capacity for overcoming my problems seemed to have deserted me. I knew I would have to give up my part-time job and I wondered how on earth we’d put food on the table. Bill had been in hospital on and off for months. He seemed happy with his weekend passes to come home, that way, he had no worries. He was drifting deeper and deeper into the protection of the hospital. I was too scared to approach anyone for help. I never complained about Bill’s drinking, I felt it was a family thing and I shouldn’t talk about it to others.
One night, I was at my lowest ebb, I’d been praying and I just fell onto the bed, exhausted. When I opened my eyes some time later, there was a light in the room. At the centre of the light stood three men, behind them, the yellow sands of the desert dotted with small white buildings. The men were dressed in long robes and their heads were covered. The middle one was the spokesman, he was dressed likewise, except for a type of sleeveless robe in the colours of dark grey, black, yellow or white. He told me that was the colour of my line and that it reached back to the olden days. He said that a great leader would be born in my house. I suddenly felt very happy. It was like I had a special secret. I slept soundly after that, and, when I awoke, I felt really alive and well.
I never told Mum about my vision, I knew it would worry her, even though she had them herself from time to time. I was a changed person after that. I knew I had the strength to face anything.
I left work when my clothes starting becoming too tight. I didn’t worry any more; somehow, we seemed to be managing, I just looked forward to the birth of the baby.
I think I always worried unconsciously about dying and leaving the children. I knew my mother wouldn’t be allowed to keep them, they’d be taken off her and she probably wouldn’t be allowed to see them ever again. I knew that would destroy her, she didn’t have the strength to rebuild her life again. Bill’s parents wouldn’t take them, not that I wanted them to, they’d be unhappy with them, so it would probably mean an orphanage or maybe the children would be separated and adopted out. I couldn’t bear that to happen to the most wonderful gifts God had given me, so the assurance of my vision had lain that ghost to rest.
Bill came out of hospital when I was about seven months pregnant, he’d been in there a long time. This time, he really tried to help himself. I hoped that he would stay on his feet a bit longer this time and he did. He started to work again and was looking forward to the baby.
I began having a lot of pain and eventually went into hospital, it was different from the pain I’d experienced with the others, it was a lot more acute. Bill drove me to the maternity hospital and left me. He was as white as a sheet. It was funny, really, he got morning sickness with the boys and I had it with the girls, so he knew it would be a son.
As he drove away, he said, ‘Don’t die!’
It was about nine o’clock at night and it was a small private hospital, not like the large ones I’d had the others in. A neighbour had recommended it, she said the Matron had delivered hundreds of babies and was better than any doctor.
There was no one at the front of the hospital, but I could see a light glowing towards the end of a long passage that stretched from the front to the back. I walked towards it, I was in agony. At the end of the corridor, the door was wide open, it was a bedroom, and there was Matron, lying on a large double bed with her huge Alsatian dog asleep beside her. She had a fag protruding from the corner of her mouth and she was reading the paper. I felt embarrassed, I didn’t know what to do. I knocked shyly.
‘Who are you?’ she said. The dog suddenly leapt up and started growling at me. ‘Shut up!’ Matron said and whacked him with her paper. She got out of bed and pulled a floral housecoat over her nightie. ‘I’m Mrs Milroy,’ I gasped, the pain was getting really bad.
‘How long have you been like this?’ she said as she led me to a small examining room. ‘Hoist yourself up there,’ she commanded, pointing to a flat sheet-covered table. ‘I want to have a look at you.’ She examined me and then said, ‘You poor thing, no wonder you’re in pain, it’s a breech, I’ll call your doctor.’
My doctor arrived, but said he could do nothing, it was all up to me.
I didn’t know such pain existed. I pushed and groaned, sweat was pouring off me, I lost a lot of blood. I was convinced my whole insides were going to spill out on the table. I became exhausted and just lay there.
My doctor just stood in the corner and watched me. He never said one word of encouragement or held my hand. I remembered then that he was a strict Catholic. I thought, he’s waiting for me to die, they always give the children priority over the mother.
I heard the Matron call him a bastard, then she patted me hard around the face and said, ‘Come on, you lazy bitch, don’t stop bloody pushing. I’m not going to let you go now!’ I was sure I was going to die. She grabbed me and started screaming, trying to get through to me. ‘You lazy bitch,’ she yelled, ‘you bloody well start pushing, you’re not giving up now just because of that bastard in the corner. You can do it, come on, I haven’t lost one yet.’
The screaming got through and I tried again, but it was no use.
Then, something made me glance to the side of the room. The most beautiful angel I’d ever seen was standing there. I felt the feathers, they were so soft and white. The face looked at me with love, smiled and said, ‘It’s Sally’s birthday.’ I repeated to myself, ‘It’s Sally’s birthday.’ I didn’t know I’d been in the room all night and it was now morning.
I felt a renewed strength, I pushed and David was born. ‘Thank God,’ the Matron said, and I knew that was true.
I’d lost so much blood, it was all over the place. I knew I’d have to have a transfusion.
I heard a strange noise and realised it was Matron’s cats meowing at the door, they were probably asking for their breakfast. Matron opened the door and shooed them away. She returned a few minutes later with her husband, Clarrie, who was clad in an old pair of striped cotton pyjamas.
; ‘The stretcher won’t fit through the door,’ she explained to me. ‘Clarrie’ll lift you through the door and then onto the stretcher.’ I felt really weak, but I almost laughed. The whole hospital suddenly struck me as really funny.
I was woken late in the afternoon by a lass with a cup of tea. I asked to see my baby, he was beautiful. I nursed him for a couple of days, but then they had to take him to PMH for observation. They were worried about him. Even though I knew he would be all right, I felt very unhappy. It seemed awful being separated from him so soon.
Bill came to visit me and was very distressed that I’d had a bad time and upset that they’d taken David to the children’s hospital. He always blamed himself when things went wrong, I knew he’d started drinking again, not heavily, just enough to relieve the pressure of the situation while I was in hospital.
It was terrible being there on my own, all the other mothers had their babies. I had nothing to do except be milked like a cow for the baby’s food supply, which was taken by taxi to PMH.
I decided I’d offer to help Elsie, the middle-aged cook, she was always complaining she had too much work to do. She was a strange person; for some reason, she seemed to have trouble with the elastic in her over-sized bloomers, they hung down below her dress and she was always hoisting them up.
For breakfast, Elsie gave us Weeties, toast and jam and a cup of tea. I was starving, I knew I needed more food than that if I was going to recover. I had jaundice and I looked as yellow as a daffodil.
‘I want eggs for breakfast,’ I told her one morning.
‘Can’t have ’em,’ she said. ‘If I give you eggs, they’ll all be yelling for eggs.’
‘But you’ve got plenty of eggs,’ I said. ‘Down the back, there’s eggs lying all over the ground where the chooks have dropped them. Look, I’ll cook them myself, you won’t have to do it.’
‘All right,’ she said, ‘but don’t let the others see you with them.’
